Unwelcome Epiphany
by Cazrolime
Summary: There’s only so oblivious one man can be, and Chandra reaches his limit when a murder takes place practically under his nose. But he’s far from happy about it.


**Title:** Unwelcome Epiphany  
**Rating:** G  
**Disclaimer:** Heroes belongs to NBC and Tim Kring.  
**Characters:** Sylar, Chandra Suresh  
**Word Count:** 1648  
**Spoilers:** Six Months Ago  
**Warnings:** None  
**Summary:** There's only so oblivious one man can be, and Chandra reaches his limit when a murder takes place practically under his nose. But he's far from happy about it.  
**Author's Notes:** Shh, look the other way, this was never for a roleplay.

* * *

Chandra's been in contact with Donna West, the hyleokinetic, for some days now. Their meeting has been eagerly planned and even more eagerly awaited, by him at least – and, if the man's restless focus is any evidence, by Gabriel as well.

Gabriel Gray. The best thing to happen to him since he came to New York looking for answers – since, in fact, he began his research and saw it met with mockery and disbelief. An amazing man with incredible abilities, manifesting unpredictably but wonderfully, and looking forward to finally meeting one of his own kind; perhaps this time, Chandra hopes, the arrangement can go without a hitch. No-one will pull out at the last minute; no-one will disappear.

And it does, at first. They drive to the Canadian border, check into the town's cheapest hotel, meet Donna West; she's nervous but friendly, and reluctantly enthused about the possibilities of manipulating glass with her mind. In the evening, they return to the hotel; the next morning, full of hope and energy and the sense that maybe this time, finally, things are going right, they return to her house—

—and find flashing blue lights, and police tape, and searching, suspicious questions.

It's a tragedy.

There's really nothing to do but to drive the long miles back to Manhattan, feeling like a balloon that's been blown too large and then popped and left to deflate.

Chandra does not even begin to suspect until several hours after he and Gabriel have parted ways at the door to his apartment. And even then, it comes gradually, creeping in without his notice, building quietly on quashed doubts and half-noticed inconsistencies, so that when he finally realises with a shock what his uneasy feeling means it's gotten its claws in and refuses all attempts to turf it out.

But Chandra _knows_ him. He just wouldn't _do_ that! All right, so the evidence doesn't seem to be stacked in his favour, but it's surely just circumstantial... inconclusive...

Right?

A sometimes-inexplicable temper does not a murderer make. If Gabriel vanishes sometimes, well, that's his prerogative as an adult who needs his personal space; Chandra's worried sometimes that he scares the man off by being too damn enthusiastic. If _other people_ vanish -- well, they could have simply decided not to talk to Chandra after all, disappointing but perfectly reasonable, and an explanation which right now he would much prefer to the alternative. If Chandra says that they can't continue unless Gabriel has an ability, and the man leaves and comes back a telekinetic—

It's the disconcerting, rug-pulled-out feeling of staring for hours at a magic-eye puzzle, only to realise that the picture is and always has been someone looking straight back at you. They knew something you didn't know, and that something wasn't pleasant.

Chandra has to sit down, very suddenly.

Later, he hurries to the library, coat collar pulled up and expression hunted. The one he heads for keeps copies of newspapers going back a few months; he scours the locals, starting weeks before he met Gabriel -- just in case -- but nothing, nothing. It's with his heart in his mouth that he turns the pages of the day they had that first great argument, expecting, perhaps, any moment to find a banner headline screaming _GRAY KILLS MAN_ or _WATCHMAKER SLAYS_. Even in the sports pages.

But-- nothing.

He could be wrong. Please, let him be wrong.

He keeps reading.

Other dates, other papers from other states. In the Chicago Tribune he is assaulted by _GRISLY MURDER WENT UNSEEN_, in which a public sidewalk, only empty thanks to luck and the early hour of the morning, was the scene of a vicious murder. It's been made into a lurid double-page spread, flanked by the story of a police chase which ended in the death of a civilian, and an article detailing how items of the suspect's clothing were seized by police only to be mysteriously stolen. Names have been withheld, much to the editor's vocal annoyance, but the date and place match perfectly.

Chandra stares for a long time at the blown-up photo of the crime scene, obscured by miles of yellow tape, and the police hotline number printed large and red in the corner of the page.

The descriptions of the body are ringing unwelcome bells in his head. Something, a small article, that he saw buried in one of the Manhattan papers. Part of him doesn't want to look for it again -- but if this is true, then how can he possibly go on abetting it? And if it isn't, then how can he let himself go on thinking that it is?

He hesitates, then draws the stack of locals towards him once again. And there, in a column of late news, in an issue of the Observer dated to about a week after their fight, Chandra finds it.

_'A routine sweep by cleaners of the New York sewer system has uncovered the body of Manhattan resident Brian Davis, who was reported missing by his wife six days ago. A police spokesman has refused to comment on alleged mutilations to the skull of the victim, which if substantiated would suggest that Mr Davis fell prey to a ritualistic killing. His funeral will be arranged once a thorough post-mortem has been carried out.'_

There's probably more in the next day's issue, but Chandra doesn't want to see it. He's shaking.

(_What about this man, Brian Davis? You think he's telekinetic, moves things with his mind-- or are you just going to throw him aside too?_)

It's partly with anger.

(_I moved a glass, Doctor Suresh. Without touching it, I mean. I'm coming to show you. I think it's--_)

--hideously obvious when it's laid out like this, hideously clear from the outside, and so he's furious with himself for being taken in, and furious with Gabriel, because he _trusted_ him, and all along...

He has his cell phone. But how would that conversation go?

_Of course it wasn't me, Chandra -- how could you think it was? If you won't trust me then I'm afraid we can't talk any more._

Or, worse:

_Of course it was me. I did it. I meant to do it. And I'll enjoy doing it again._

Chandra shudders.

If he calls the police -- well, if he's lucky they'll laugh in his face at the mention of superpowers (not telling the whole story doesn't even occur to him). If he's unlucky, they'll see him as an accessory -- which he _is_, oh God, and that knowledge is growing in him like a strangling fungus. If he's _really_ unlucky, they'll arrest Gabriel. And yes, he's angry, and yes, he's frightened, he's betrayed -- but they've been friends for what feels sometimes like years, and he doesn't want to be the kind of person who'd stab a man in the back like that. He could still be -- there's the tiniest, obscurest sliver of hope that he's -- wrong. If he calls the police, it will be after he's spoken to Gabriel and after he's _certain_.

It's not an option, he thinks as he steps out into the wind with an armful of hasty photocopies, to pretend that he does not know this. It's too big. It's too horrible. If he acts like everything is normal then he could be letting (more) people die.

As he knocks on the door a brisk walk later, it occurs that he has never actually been inside Gabriel's apartment. The option has never really come up. The map, and what equipment Chandra has, all make their home under his own roof; he's never so much as seen the other side of the man's front door.

It looks like he might soon, though, as after a moment or two Gabriel opens it. With every appearance of delight: "Chandra. To what do I owe the pleasure?"

This is going to be difficult.

"May I come in?"

He's putting off the moment when he has to blurt out the words, and knows it. Gabriel looks surprised, and slightly, strangely reluctant, but opens the door more widely and steers Chandra to the tiny dining table. Chandra is aware that he and his folded sheets of paper are being eyed closely.

"Tea?"

"No, thank you." Deep breath, Chandra. Just say it. It has to be said. "Gabriel…"

The watchmaker, apparently well aware of his serious tone, sits opposite from him, fingers steepled and eyes boring into him. Chandra swallows, and then spreads his crooked photocopy of _GRISLY MURDER WENT UNSEEN_ on the table.

(He imagines the stifled intake of breath. It _has to be_ his imagination.)

"I have to ask…"

"What are you doing with that?"

"…if this is…"

Chandra trails off, helplessly. But he has to ask this, he reasons: he has to ask it, or else he'll practically be condoning this, finding out about it but not lifting a finger to stop it. And that – even more than being fooled -- _that_ would be unforgivable.

"Is this about you?"

There. It's out. It can't be taken back. It has to be answered.

But for the longest time, no answer is forthcoming. Gabriel just looks at him, with that familiar piercing, analysing stare, now sharpening to shock, now wavering to hesitation, now hardening into a strange and unsettling single-minded determination. It's a look that Chandra has seen only once or twice before, a stronger cousin of the face the watchmaker wears when they discuss Chandra's theories; it makes him suddenly aware that if he is right, that if the man sitting opposite him really is a murderer, then that might have implications for him far more drastic and immediate than just the disappointment of being tricked.

"…Gabriel?" he ventures at last.

It prompts a smile, slow and thin and cold and utterly petrifying.

"That's not my name."


End file.
